


Tortured

by emiley



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom, Louis Tomlinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band), liam payne - Fandom, niall horan - Fandom, zayn malik - Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-02-27 13:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18739747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiley/pseuds/emiley
Summary: Arielle Owens, journalist.Sawyer Owens, photographer.Unstoppable at work.Unbearable at home.When the duo gets the chance to work on One Direction's comeback interview into the music world, the potential for a lifestyle change is almost evident. What will happen when one of the band members takes a keen interest in Arielle?Life for everyone will be more unstable than ever before. If that's even possible.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This IS going to be a One Direction fic, even though they're only briefly mentioned in this chapter. This chapter serves heavily on the fact as an introduction of the main characters. Let me know what you think!

I was awoken to tiny, tiny feet bouncing against the hardwood floors, sounding just as if someone had thrown two bouncy balls down the hallway at once—the sound was off beat as they bounced in an uncoordinated pattern. I rolled over and picked up my phone off of the nightstand, and saw that it was six o’clock in the morning, still dark outside, but nothing unusual as I knew it was nearly time for me to get ready for work. As soon as I tossed my pale, bare legs over the side of my bed, I saw a wide-awake toddler stick her face through the crack of the white, wooden door. “Good morning, my Little Mermaid,” I quietly cooed, careful not to awaken my sleeping husband, Sawyer, beside me.

“Mornin’ Mommy!” the little girl squealed back.

“Ryan Monroe, we must be quiet. We can’t wake up Daddy,” I whispered, holding my pointer finger to my lips. My daughter mimicked me, stifling a giggle. Shaking my head, but grinning, I walked to where my daughter was still standing, and picked her up, placing her on my hip. We walked—well I walked—down the large semi-spiral staircase that led into the main living room. Tiptoeing into the kitchen, I thought once more, how this was such a big house for such a tiny family. 

The home was big, too big now that I realized one child was enough for us. However, it was the definition of everything I wanted in a house—the one I saved pictures of online for years, hoping that one day my family would grow old together in a home built from my dreams. And it truly was—something from dreams that is. Sawyer and I custom designed the home as it was being built, ensuring that it was of grand enough size to impress any onlookers, yet fool anyone who dared enter that our family was as beautiful as it. 

Once in the kitchen, I placed Ryan on her feet, ensuring that she was steady enough to stand on her own two legs before I opened the pantry door, looking for something to make for breakfast. “Want some pancakes?” I asked my daughter, who was now attempting to climb onto the bar stool that stood in front of the marble-top island in the center of the room.

“Yes!” she eagerly replied. Ryan’s energy at this hour of the day still remained a mystery to me. Her tiny hands reached for the bucket of crayons and a piece of paper that sat in a neat stack on the middle of the island. Ryan loved anything and everything that involved drawing, painting, and coloring and I was genuinely in awe at the artistic talent she attained at the young age of three. Part of me wondered if she’d carry on into adulthood her love of arts and maybe make a career of it.

As I stood in front of the countertop, mixing the pancake mix—because let’s be honest here, I didn’t have to make them completely from scratch—all that was on my mind was that I wished I would have put socks on before coming downstairs. The tiled floor stayed so cold when it was barely walked upon.

A handful of minutes later, Ryan and I were sitting at the round kitchen table, that sat in front of a huge glass window that overlooked our backyard, away from the mess of artwork she had already made, eating blueberry pancakes. Blueberry pancakes were one of her favorite foods, and it had been ever since she was old enough to eat table food. I was brought out of my thoughts about what it was like when she first started eating food that wasn’t pureed, when Ryan asked, “What’s that?” grabbing my wrist, turning my hand over as if she were thoroughly inspecting it, quite like a doctor would. I flinched a little, had forgetting that I’d be sore.

Last night, Sawyer had one too many glasses of Coke and Rum. He’s an angry drunk. You know those kinds of people—they’re really no fun to be around when they’ve had too much to drink. Not that Sawyer was much fun to be around sober, but that’s another story. These people, Sawyer included, tend to be aggressive when their blood is tainted. It wasn’t his fault, really. People can’t help who they become when they’re under the influence.

I had to think quickly as the curious toddler remained holding onto my arm with a puzzled look dancing across her features. “Oh nothing, sweetie,” I began. “Mommy tripped walking up the stairs yesterday and hit my hand on the wall. It’s just a little boo-boo,” I lied, and my heart broke a little as she leaned over and planted a kiss on my purple wrist. I couldn’t help but smile at my mini-me.

Mini-me might be an understatement. I don’t know how it happened, but my daughter was practically my clone. Ryan Monroe, or my Little Mermaid, as I called her, had hair the color of a cherry. I never understood why people who have orange hair, call it red when it clearly isn’t, because my little girl and I had red hair, like actual red. It was such a dark shade of red, that sometimes it looked purple. If it weren’t for Ryan inheriting the dramatic shade, more people would ask me if mine was dyed like they used to when I was younger. The shape of Ryan’s mouth and nose looked like they were copied from my facial features and pasted onto hers. There was just one distinct physical attribute that connected her to Sawyer. Her eyes. Their eyes were teal, like an actual drop of blue and green paint mixed together, creating the most stark feature that stood out on her pale skin. One could say I’m biased, but I truly believe Ryan Monroe is the most beautiful child I’ve ever seen. But with her red hair—actual red—and blue eyes, she earned her nickname. Therefore, she is my Little Mermaid. 

Moments later, I cringed when I heard footsteps walking down the stairs. Sawyer was awake, and after last night, I could only imagine how bad this morning was going to be. Sawyer in a hung-over state of mind, or any state of mind for that matter, was especially angry. The bruises the exact size of his fingers suddenly throbbed on my wrist, but I smiled anyway when he entered the room. “Good morning, Elle,” Sawyer said, his voice so sharp it could cut steel. He placed a hand on my shoulder, and I flinched, before he took a seat beside his daughter.

“Good morning, Sawyer. Can I make you some breakfast? You weren’t up yet, and I didn’t want the pancakes to get cold,” I said in a rush, hoping my nervousness wasn’t as audibly noticeable as it felt. He nodded and made a face that resembled nothing but distaste at his daughter who was already eagerly talking to him. Sweet Ryan never seemed to know when her father wasn’t interested in conversation. Sawyer really didn’t seem interested in speaking the language of a three year old on this dreary Monday morning. I sighed quietly. 

I got up and began to mix more pancake batter, adding blueberries and strawberries this go around—Sawyer’s favorite. As I stood at the stove, I thought about the events of last night. I was ready to sleep after a long day of keeping Ryan entertained in the dreary weather that consumed our weekend, and I knew I had to be awake early this morning for work. Sawyer, however, expected much more from me when I tiptoed into our bedroom last night. He expected more that I didn’t want to give. More than I ever wanted to give. I told him just as much, in a state of tired haze and regretted it immediately. I was shoved forcefully onto the bed, my shoulder hitting the headboard. Sawyer’s alcohol laced breath filled my senses and I felt a grip wrap tightly around my wrist, holding my hands above my head. I whimpered, wanting nothing more than to sleep as I heard a string of curse words and felt my husband’s body press into mine. Suddenly the bruises burned, bringing me back into the reality where all I really wanted to feel was the cold on my feet from the tiled floor.

I glanced over at my small family, if I could include Sawyer in that description, and saw Ryan Monroe was coloring once more as her father stared out the window, his head being supported by his strong, rough hands. I shook my head and smiled ever so slightly to myself. I loved that little girl more than life itself and all I could do was pray, pray to whichever Gods could hear me, that she and I remained steady throughout this terrible storm in which we were treading.

Content with the quiet sizzle of liquid pancake batter turning solid, I let my mind wander again, Sawyer and I lived on the edge of the city of New York—close enough for business and far away enough from the noise. Before we began to build a house, my only request was that it must have a big enough yard for future children to play. I was a well-established journalist who decided to venture into the music business at a young age—I didn’t have any particular talents for the world of music, but I definitely knew how to write about it. I very determinedly finished a four year college degree in three years at New York University, with a major in journalism and a minor in business management. 

At the young age of twenty-one, I marched myself back into the place I interned at and asked for a job from the second in charge, Charles Davis. Graciously, I was called back within the week and began my job at the Billboard Magazine offices in New York City. Charles and I were comfortable around each other, so I spent my first few days on the job as his shadow, slowly expanding my knowledge of the company. It was on day three, when Charles left me alone for a few moments that I was approached by Sawyer Owens, the head photographer of the company. He offered to read a few of my writings from college and we had wonderful conversations about what the photography components would look like if I had been given a chance to work with him while I was interning. Before I knew it, I was head over heels in loves with the dark-haired, blue-eyed photographer. 

Sawyer and I were happy at first, I promise we were. However, I was young and in love, and I thought no man would ever love me more or treat me better than Sawyer Owens would. I didn’t realize I could wait for better people to come along, because I was blindsided by a man who promised me the future I had always wanted. We only dated for a year before we got married, and suddenly we became the tag-team duo at Billboard Magazine that everyone wanted to work with. Our work flowed together like we were always meant to be. I did the writing, and Sawyer did the picture-taking. For that first year, everything was near perfect. It wasn’t until about a month before our wedding when I first saw any sign of violence in the man I loved. He was drunk, not as much as he was last night, but when he hit me, I was still in a state of shock. Surely I didn’t experience a near year of bliss for it to turn sour now. I didn’t tell anyone, and instead crossed my fingers and toes that I’d never be given another chance to tell anyone.

I was twenty-two and extremely disappointed with the life I had chosen when he hit me again. The next time he hit me, he hit me more than once, and very hard. We were only three months into our first year of marriage when I got pregnant. It was most certainly not something we planned or something we had ever really discussed. We had plans to take over the world of journalism and that was nearly impossible with a baby. I don’t really remember the screaming match we had that day, as I stood in the doorway of the bathroom with a positive test in my hand. What I do remember is a few really hard blows to the side of my head and some pressure on my abdomen before I went unconscious. I woke up in the hospital with my parents and younger brother surrounding me, with a permanent look of horror sketched into their features. There was a police officer standing outside of the room, his head moving to scan the people who walked back and forth in front of him. No one wanted me to take Sawyer back. I didn’t want to take him back, but I had no choice. My whole life was in my career and Sawyer was, well, he was my career. 

As I was stacking the pancakes onto a glass plate, Sawyer cleared his throat and I glanced up to see him rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Will you bring me a glass of whiskey?” he asked, running his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. His teal eyes were bloodshot, creating a vivid image, the ocean blue contrasting with bubblegum pink. I carefully approached the kitchen table and sat the plate down, my hands shaking. If I had hid my nerves before, I hadn’t just then. I turned around, to do as I was told and reached for the glass bottle of whiskey that sat on the coffee bar, pouring a glass of hard liquor before the sun came up. As I sat the glass down in front of Sawyer, I mistakenly mumbled, “Too early for this.” I think my brain registered what just happened before Sawyer’s fog-filled mind did. I had to think quickly, because unfortunately this side of reality had become far too normal. 

“Ryan, please go to your room. Mommy will be there in just a minute to get you ready, okay?” I said in a rush, wanting my daughter out of the room as soon as possible; she didn’t need to see whatever was about to happen. Her eyes that matched Sawyer’s flashed to mine in a state of panic. She immediately dropped the crayon in her hand and ran, as if she knew just how terrifying this could get.

I tried to take a step away from my hung-over, infuriated husband, but he was quicker than I was. In no more than two seconds since our daughter ran away, Sawyer threw the glass of whisky I had just put down. I tried to turn away, but the glass shattered against my cheek bone and shoulder. I shuddered as glass fell, getting caught in my hair, to land on top of my feet. Suddenly the tiled floor didn’t seem so cold. It was then the burning started. “Don’t you think it’s a little early to be talking about what I should and shouldn’t do?” this man I dared to call my husband said—he didn’t yell, but his voice remained dark. Sawyer’s face was inches from mine, and I feared the pain that was to come when he raised his hand back. The palm of his hand stung my glass-chipped, blood-stained cheek, causing the pain to intensify. “Answer me, dammit!”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, a fog clouding my thoughts. I knew what was happening, yet a part of me still couldn’t process it. Every time this happened, all I could do was ask myself “why?” Sawyer’s hand was on my jaw next, forcing me to look into the eyes that I fell in love with just a few years prior, eyes that matched Ryan’s, our daughter who didn’t deserve to see her parents like this. 

“And just like you, your answer isn’t good enough,” Sawyer bellowed. I tried to take a deep breath, but the lock he had on my jaw made it impossible to move—impossible to do anything but face my greatest fear. Tears welled up in my eyes, but not because of his harsh statement. I was used to the verbal assault, as it was more common than the physical. I found myself crying over the built up anger and frustration I felt within myself. I was disappointed in myself for staying in this terrible, unholy situation, for enduring it for years, for lying to my daughter when she’d asked me why I was hurt like she did this morning, and most importantly, I was disappointed in myself for allowing my daughter to grow up in such an environment. “Clean this up, and get out of here. I don’t want to see your face any longer than I have to,” Sawyer said, his words a little slurred. His hand let go of my face, and I dashed away as quickly as possible to fetch the broom. 

After cleaning up the glass and whisky stained floor, I decided to clean up myself before Ryan saw me. I made a silent wish that she didn’t stay in sight of what happened and that she actually was upstairs throughout Sawyer’s episode. When I made it to the bathroom, I carefully took my clothes off, trying to prevent the possibility of any remaining glass from falling onto the floor. I walked over to the full-length mirror to examine the damage. I had several cuts littering my right cheek that would be hard to hide at work, and really hard to take the tweezers to—I could feel miniscule shards of glass that needed to be picked out of the wounds. Okay, well maybe the shoulder cuts wouldn’t be hard to hide, but it sure would hurt. And now, as if he hadn’t made his mark evident enough last night, to match the bruise on my wrist, I had Sawyer’s fingerprints lingering on my jaw in an unappealing shade of pink. Please don’t let them bruise, I whispered to myself, very carefully tracing my own fingers over the marks. This instance wouldn’t be like others, because bruises on my face are hard to cover with my fair skin. I won’t be able to handle the looks of my coworkers if the pink fades to purple, becoming much more obvious. If they did notice, I’d get the same sad stares and a few lingering hugs that I always got on days in which it was evident something was wrong. Whether or not they knew the extent of what happened behind closed doors, I didn’t know. Right now, I couldn’t care. I took a shower, allowing the warm water to rush over my achingly sore body, basking in my five minutes of peace. The shower ended all too fast, and I knew I was likely running late. Not being too sure of what I was wearing yet, I put on my bathrobe, and went into Ryan’s room.

“Mommy’s okay?” she asked, as soon as I stepped into her room, knowing something was clearly wrong. Her entire life had been spent seeing me hurt, and that wasn’t fair. She deserved to see me strong, not pretending to be strong. At this moment, however, I was just thankful that she appeared to have gone straight to her room like I asked. I found Ryan standing at a doll house the size of her body, playing quietly, and with a smile on her face. 

“Mommy is okay,” I replied, smiling, my daughter’s love being contagious. “Can we get you dressed now?” I asked, and she nodded. I thanked God every day that He had blessed me with such a perfect child. I wouldn’t know what to do if I couldn’t handle my daughter as well as my husband. Ryan Monroe gave me a will to live—a will to power through each and every day. 

Most children Ryan’s age went to some sort of pre-school or childcare facility, but since she was one year old, I had been bringing her to work with me every single day. I had my own office that overlooked some of the prettiest buildings in New York, and something about the view intrigued my artist in the making. Ryan had her own section of my office, complete with toys and a whole lot of art supplies. Everyone loved her—she stole the hearts of everyone she met. Her personality, along with her sense of fashion made everyone ooh and awe at her all day long. With that being said, the only issue I ever had with my spunky three-year old was her love of clothes. She never hesitated to tell me when she didn’t like an outfit, which I admire most days. Some days it’s a little frustrating, but who can blame her when she’s grown up inside of a magazine company. Today, Ryan decided on a dark blue, almost green high waisted pants and a long-sleeve white shirt. I brushed her hair out, wanting to leave it down on this unusually cold day in April, but made sure to tie in the headband that matched the color of her pants.

I ended up in a similar outfit, trusting my toddler’s fashion sense over my own in the current mindset I was in. I led Ryan into my room and sat her on the bed while I got dressed, putting on high-waisted dress pants and tucked in a sleeveless dress shirt, remembering to grab a jacket to cover up the bandage on my shoulder. I decided on a simple makeup look and let my hair remain wavy from air drying, as I was racing the clock at this point in my morning. In the midst of adding a few accessories to the outfit, it hit me that today was an even bigger day at work than I had thought. Today, Billboard Magazine was welcoming the comeback of popular boyband, One Direction. I’ll admit, I was really excited about this feature, because I used to be a fan myself. When the band members went their own ways, I did too, which is when college and work became my top priorities. Now I had Ryan and I barely had time to enjoy anything that wasn’t love for her. Not that I was complaining.

I finally finished getting ready, and scooped Ryan into my arms to walk down the stairs. I didn’t have time for her to climb down the spiral steps by herself this morning. When I walked into the living room, Sawyer was standing there, as if he had been waiting for us. I sat Ryan on her feet and glanced down at my own, not being able to look my husband in the eyes. My body ached even more, just by being in his presence. “I’m sorry, Arielle. You know I wouldn’t have to do things like this, if you just behaved. I don’t mean to hurt you, I just—I just want you to be the same girl that I married,” Sawyer told me. His eyes looked sincere, and I might would believe his words if it was the first time I was hearing them.

All I could do was nod, my jaw aching. “I know you don’t mean to hurt me. You’re just a lot stronger than you realize,” I said quietly. “I have to go to work. Have a good day off, Sawyer.” I glanced up to see Ryan tugging on her booties that were left discarded in the foyer.

Sawyer pulled away from me, smiled, and as if nothing was out of the ordinary, said, “You do a good job at hiding those marks I leave on your face.” And as if he thought better of himself, he then told me goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ryan, today is a very important day for Mommy. I have a big, big interview, so I’m going to need you to be on your best behavior, okay?” I asked as the toddler who stood beside me in the elevator, her small backpack that we kept in the car, slid over her shoulders. It was a little heavy, but she insisted on carrying it herself. Not that I was complaining—I had enough of my own stuff to carry in. 

“Like this big?” Ryan Monroe questioned me, giggling as she threw her arms open wide, stretching as far as her little body would allow her to. She looked up at me with bright, joyful eyes and grinned. 

“Even bigger,” I replied, and her eyes widened dramatically. I couldn’t help but laugh, intrigued by her concept of big versus important. The elevator dinged and I grabbed Ryan’s hand. I wasn’t worried that someone would grab her, I was worried however, that she would take off on her own to say hello to someone. “Say good morning, Ryan,” I told the girl as my boss waved at us from a few feet away, looking at someone’s latest write-up. 

“Morning, Mr. Davis,” Ryan cooed in her sweet voice and then put a skip in her step, pulling me, all the way to my office. I swear the little girl knew her way around the offices more than some of the interns that were here full-time.

I scanned my badge and the large, wooden door came unlocked, to reveal my home away from home. I loved being a mother, but work was truly one of my happiest places—especially on Mondays when Sawyer is off. My office was on the fourteenth floor, overlooking one of New York City’s best views. Even though the day was foggy, the building lights still shined, reminding me that there is a world outside of my own. Maybe one day I’d know what it was like to roam the world freely. It felt like an eternity ago since I last was my own person. 

Even Ryan loved coming here just as much as I did. Since day one, Ryan was obsessed with the wall of large windows that overlooked the bustle of people and illumination of city lights—I was enjoying raising a city girl at heart. Ryan kicked off her shoes and dashed to the back wall, her hands immediately plastered themselves to the glass as her eyes scanned the outside world, the world that I knew she would crave to be a part of one day. I wasn’t sure why young children felt the need to touch everything they deemed fascinating, but I made sure to apologize to the cleaning crew on a weekly basis for the numerous handprints that needed scrubbing from the glass.

The walls that weren’t engulfed in the city’s view, were painted the lightest shade of blue, so soft that in certain lightings it resembled a gray. All of the furniture in the room was white, which I adorned with small touches of burnt rose, which sometimes looked more peach-like than pink. My home with Sawyer was very clean-cut—all whites and neutrals—but I felt like my office had just enough color to satisfy my need for a welcoming atmosphere.

As Ryan began to color—she has just as many crayons and coloring books here as she does at home—I began to work. There was so much to be done today, and my scheduled interview was taking place in—I looked at the corner of my laptop screen—roughly two hours. I felt like I had done so little to prepare for this huge interview, which led to my heart racing as I scrambled to gather my thoughts. What was I going to ask them? Would the band members be open and honest, or would it feel like a chore to them? I didn’t know what to expect, as I remembered my teenage days of watching countless interviews. Sometimes the boys were into it and there was a lighthearted mood throughout the entire questioning, but other times, they looked as if they would rather be anywhere else than crowded on that one small couch together. With that being said, it was bound to be a busy morning, researching the millions of somewhat useless facts that I could use to prompt discussion, in hopes that it would guarantee me at least a decent interview. 

I stumbled across all of their social media accounts, some rarely used and some with considerable amounts of activity each week. All of them had ventured into the solo business, but some were more successful than others. Zayn had left the band before the eight-year break, and I wondered if he’d be making an appearance with this revival. Personally, I would be shocked if five men walked through my office door instead of four. Whatever the case may be though, life for the One Direction boys didn’t slow down when the band stopped performing together. I made note to ask them the most important question of all: Why get the band back together now?

Suddenly, I was startled by a knock on the large, wooden door. It wasn’t a loud knock, but it was abrupt as my daughter and I were both working so contently. “Ryan, do you want to get the door for me?” I asked the grinning toddler. She loved answering the door for people, because she never knew if it was going to be someone she recognized or someone new whom she could introduce herself to. Ryan raced to the door and reached for the handle, pulling it open with a “good morning!” 

In walked my assistant, Victoria Casey. She was rather new to the company, as she started in January, fresh out of journalism school just as I had been four years ago. I never saw myself as someone who was worthy of an assistant, but when Charles asked me if I could use some help, I most definitely took the opportunity. I was swamped with work at the time and felt like I was spending less and less quality time with my daughter, so what work Victoria and I couldn’t get done together by the end of the workday, was left for the next day. There was no more of me taking work home, which I was grateful for, for Ryan’s sake, but it left me uneasy to spend more time under the same roof as Sawyer, without work as an excuse to be left alone. 

“Good Morning, Ms. Ryan Monroe,” she said, smiling back at my daughter. Those two had grown close to each other in the last four months, which made me happy knowing Ryan had someone else to look up to. Victoria was going to be just as, if not more successful than me one day—I wanted nothing more than to surround Ryan with well-rounded, successful, happy people. Victoria wore black skinny jeans, and a snug fitting, solid red dress shirt, buttoned to her neck. Her blonde hair hung down to her shoulders, perfectly straightened. Ryan gracefully held the door for my assistant to walk in, closing the door behind her. Victoria smiled at me, her lips the exact color tone of her sweater, her eyes glowing a soft blue.

“Good morning, Arielle,” she said, sitting at her desk against the wall left of my workspace, opposite the grand windows.

“Good morning,” I replied politely. “Are you ready for today?” She nodded, smiling wide as she glanced to the wall behind her desk where a calendar was hung. On today’s date, April 7th, the words One Direction were written in bold letters. Being five years younger than me, she was especially devoted in her teenage years to the revival of the band and she had followed their solo careers near-religiously.

Victoria couldn’t hide the giddy expression that washed over her face. “You know I’ve been a fan for as long as they’ve been a band. I can’t believe my luck, truthfully.”

“What do you mean?” I pondered, clicking the pen I held in my hand open and close. I turned my focus momentarily to Ryan who had surprisingly discarded the crayons and had opted for one of her favorite dolls, one that Sawyer brought home from a business trip to California a few months ago.

“Of all people to get the chance to do their big comeback interview, it’s you. I mean I’m still brand new to this world of business, so to have the chance to work with you during this part of your career—that’s luck if you ask me.” 

I couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped my mouth. I was proud of my success and where I stood in the company for Billboard Magazine, but I definitely wasn’t well known. I mean, maybe I was if you were a regular viewer of our publication, but Victoria thinking it was luck that placed her with me, well that was almost silly. Luck isn’t a real thing. “Well, I’m glad to have you here,” I told Victoria.

It was then that I went back to my research, deciding to calculate the numbers for CD and DVD sales, along with the profit of the band’s several world tours over the course of the five years they spent together. If anything, at least we could discuss numbers, I thought to myself. However, so far I had developed a few key points that needed discussing:

1\. Why get the band back together after eight years of solo work?  
2\. If Zayn is here, why come back now? If he’s not, was he at least contacted?  
3\. What are the plans for the future of One Direction?  
Of course there were other things I wanted to discuss like relationship statuses, time spent as solo artists, and their new management team, but those would need to be brought up naturally. I didn’t want to talk about something that had the potential to make them uncomfortable. The band’s team had scheduled a two hour block of time with Billboard today and a few more hours tomorrow for the photography session with Sawyer. I had two hours today to make or break my career as a journalist. 

What seemed like an eternity later, I pushed myself away from my desk, took a deep breath, and then excused myself, asking Victoria to watch my daughter for a few minutes. I walked down the hallway, smiling at some coworkers who were fairly fond of my small little family and avoided the eyes of those who I could tell wanted to question my relationship but were too afraid to do so. I made it to the break room, suddenly feeling really tired, the adrenaline from this morning wearing off. I desperately needed a cup of coffee with as much sugar as possible in it, in hopes that the rush of sweetness could keep me alert enough to survive the most nerve-wracking interview of my life. 

As I stood in the breakroom, which was thankfully empty, I watched the coffee brewer began to heat up. I was suddenly extremely nervous for what was to come the rest of the day with what was once the world’s biggest boyband. I had done so many interviews before, but what was I supposed to ask these boys who had done so many interviews of their own in the past? How could I make this a new, intriguing experience for them? I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and counted to ten, just as I do every time I suddenly feel overwhelmed, grabbed the cup of coffee from the tray, and slowly made my way back to the office, avoiding eye contact with the same people as before.

With the beep of my key card, I walked back into my office, my tongue burning with a sip of the boiling caffeinated drink. I was greeted with Victoria and Ryan staring at me from where they sat, Victoria still in her desk chair and Ryan in her lap. They were silent, which was a rarity for both of them. “Can I help you guys?” I said, cautiously with an uneasy chuckle, walking back to my desk. There was a picture sitting on my laptop that Ryan had colored for me. From what I could depict, it was supposed to be the two of us together, big smiles drawn on our face.

“It’s to make you feel better, Mommy,” her innocent voice spoke, echoing through the room that held an unnerving silence that wasn’t there when I left just a few moments ago.

“I feel great, sweetheart. Thank you,” I told the little girl, her teal eyes hopeful. My response seemed to satisfy the three year old, but not my assistant. Her brow was in a furrow, and she was chewing on the end of her pen. I watched as she stood and slowly walked over to me, eyes looking everywhere but into mine. I sat down in my chair while I awaited her arrival.

“Arielle,” she whispered, not stopping in front of my desk, but continuing until she was stood beside me. I spun around in my chair, so I was directly facing her. Victoria’s pale hand, fingernails dipped in candy apple red, reached out to touch my shoulder and I was momentarily confused. That is, confused until I realized what must’ve gone on while I stepped out of the room—realized what my daughter could have said to her.

“Victoria, I don’t know what’s going on,” I sighed, shaking her hand off my very sore shoulder. “But what I do know is that we have a big interview ahead of us, and we need to get ready.”

“I’m not worried about the interview right this second, Arielle,” the young girl told me, which I knew wasn’t true, but her voice was laced with sincerity. “I’m worried about you. I don’t know what happened or when it happened, but Ryan told me her Dad hurt you this morning.” 

“Is that all she told you?” I asked, my voice quiet and bland. I had heard this same spill far too many times from numerous people to let my emotions take over now. I was achy, tired, and defeated, but that meant nothing to me anymore. I was numb to this life I was living.

“Yes. She told me Dad was angry and he hurt you, that she had to run to her room, so she didn’t see it. Arielle, please tell me this isn’t something that happens often.” It was with that statement, that the bandages wrapped around my shoulder suddenly felt as if they were made of lead, dragging me down. Involuntarily, I lifted my hand and allowed my fingers to trace over the cuts on my face hidden by the heavy layer of foundation and concealer.

“It happens here and there, it’s nothing I’m not used to,” I replied, telling the truth, but knowing that it wasn’t enough for Victoria—she would keep pressing the subject, and that was something that couldn’t happen. “Sawyer has a bad temper and I know I should be more careful of what I say. Can we let this go now?”

“No. You do not get to blame yourself in a situation like this. What he does is absolutely uncalled for, especially in front of that beautiful little girl of yours.”

“Victoria, do you think this is something I don’t know? It breaks my heart every day that Ryan is being raised in an atmosphere like this, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s never witnessed anything happen, she just hears Sawyer’s yelling and occasionally sees the bruises,” I continued telling my assistant the truth. This is the first time in a long time that I’ve taken the time to tell this story. Part of me felt relieved, but mostly I just felt extremely sad.

“Other than the obvious reason, why haven’t you tried to leave him?” Victoria asked me, and I sighed. She then mumbled something along the lines of, “Can’t look at him the same again.” 

I decided to address her latter statement first. “You cannot, and I mean absolutely cannot, hint at any sign of indifference toward him when we work photoshoots. He can read people so quickly, Victoria.” The assistant was quiet, as if she were pondering her next statement. “Promise me you won’t let on to this.”

“I promise, Arielle. But—I mean you can’t let me do nothing about this. We can figure out a way to get you and Ryan away from there. There has to be something.” 

I gave her a small smile, but shook my head. “There’s nothing to be done. Not right now, at least. For now, this is the lifestyle I chose to marry into. I know how to steer clear of Sawyer’s anger most times and he’d never hurt Ryan—that much I know. So for now, the most you can do is be my friend, because I’m not allowed many of those.” Saying those words aloud, really made the word abusive jump out at me, like a shooting star in the middle of a starless night sky.

Victoria nodded her head in agreeance, which I was very thankful for. The last thing I needed was someone to disturb the minimal peace I did have in my life. She leaned down and hugged me, and I felt really safe here, in this moment. It felt like, even if just for today, everything would be okay. That’s more than I could ask for—just one good day. “Thank you,” I told her quietly when the friendly embrace ended.

Victoria backed away and smiled sadly. “I know my job title says assistant, but I’m much more than that. Whatever you and Ryan may need, I’ll do my very best to help you. That’s what friends are for, Arielle.”

“You know you can call me Elle. You don’t have to say that mouthful of a name,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood. After all, we did have a big day ahead of us, despite this genuine moment we just had.

“Okay, Elle,” Victoria said with a small laugh. “Is there anything I can help you do to prepare for the interview?”

“This also isn’t in your job description, but would you mind occupying Ryan while I finish up some research? I had absolutely no free time this weekend to get caught up.”

“Absolutely,” she nodded and gracefully strutted over to where my mini-me sat. After our conversation, I felt comfortable enough to take off my leather jacket, revealing the cream colored bandages that looked just as ugly against my pale skin, as the bruises and cuts underneath them did.

In less than one hour, four, maybe five, boys would be sitting in front of me, hopefully ready to answer eight years’ worth of questions that every fan was hoping to know the answers to. This comeback interview would be their tell-all experience as one of the world’s most successful boybands. After a few more scribbled questions across my note paper, I organized my desk, closed my laptop and decided I should probably put my jacket back on to ensure I looked my most presentable.

As Victoria and Ryan entertained themselves with dolls and a make-believe conversation, I realized that I simply needed to get through the interview and by the end of the day, I would have all the information I needed to write one of my best journalistic pieces yet. By the end of the day, hopefully I could breathe just a little bit easier. Maybe easier wasn’t the right word, because hardly anything in my life was easy, but for now it was tolerable. I knew I had the support of a few coworkers, and the love of my daughter to make this pain temporary.

And if two words could describe my life, I thought to myself, those would be it: temporarily tolerable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The band is in the next chapter, I promise!


	3. Chapter 3

            Although I had just been on my computer, I was sat in my desk chair with my phone in hand, feverishly scrolling down to refresh the emails in my inbox. As the time neared for the interview, the more worried I began to feel—worried that something would go wrong and that the band wouldn’t show. I was dependent on this interview to get through my day. I hated to admit it, but I knew I would be devastated if something went awry. However, it was in the midst of these thoughts, when two quick taps sounded on the wooden office door. I could hear Charles and a mutter of a few other voices, so I told Ryan “I’ll get it this time, darling” when she looked up at me with excited eyes. I stood from my desk, smoothed out my shirt and made my way to the office door. I knew Charles had access to unlock the door, but I appreciated him letting me introduce myself.

            “Hello, Mr. Davis,” I said politely, smiling at the man who I owed my career to. A few paces behind him, a string of men were following each other to where I currently stood.

            “Hello to you, Arielle. Your band is here. Are you ready?” Charles said, with a sincere smile on his face. Of the all the people that worked here, I couldn’t believe I was the one to get this gig. I just hoped I would be able to do them justice.

            “Absolutely,” I assured my boss, pushing the door open further as the members of One Direction made their way to my door. All those memories of enjoying their music as a teenager came rushing back as I saw not four, but five familiar faces staring back at me.

            “I’ll leave you to it. Good luck,” Charles told me with a nod. I watched him take a few steps back toward his office with who I assumed were members of the band’s new management team. I’m glad they stepped away from the interview to let the band be as authentic as possible.

            “Come on in and find a seat wherever you please,” I told the boys, holding the door open for them. I turned on the light switch that had been off all morning, the room illuminated only by lamps. I walked into my office once more and saw my daughter hadn’t paid any attention to who else had entered the room. Victoria had managed to sneak away from my daughter and had returned to her desk. “Okay. First of all, hello. It’s so nice to meet you. My name is Arielle Owens. My assistant Victoria will be joining us for the interview today to documents what is said for reference when I write the interview. I like to keep it authentic.”

            The boys in front of me smiled back—three were on the white sofa, and two were in armchairs adjacent to the couch. The one person who leaned forward with his hand outstretched was Harry Styles, his green eyes glowing. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m Harry,” he told me, as if I didn’t know who one of the most successful musicians in this modern era was.

            The man beside him decided to follow suit with the handshakes. I took his hand as he said, “I’m Louis—thank you for having us today.”

            I continued my line of handshakes as I was formally introduced to Niall and Liam. On the far right of the room, in the armchair beside the couch, next to Harry sat the one band member I never thought I’d see back with the band. “And you’re Zayn,” I said, outstretching my hand to him. He immediately took my hand, then smiled at me, but didn’t say anything else, so I didn’t push it. Not yet, anyway. After all, that was one of my most important questions to ask today. Question Two: If Zayn is here, why come back now?

            I returned to my desk chair, not knowing quite where else to sit with this many people occupying my office. I had done countless interviews, but never with a band of five. “Let me begin this interview with saying, I am so intrigued by the revival process of the band. I used to be a really big fan myself.”

            “Well aren’t you still?” I got asked, and my eyes flashed to the man sitting on the far left armchair, directly across from Zayn. His Irish accent echoed throughout the room.

            “Of course I am,” I replied sincerely. As I spoke, I noticed that Niall’s voice caught the attention of Ryan. She was looking up from her dolls, with a look of intrigue written across her features—her blue eyes were scrunched. However, she simply returned to playing and I let out a small sigh of relief. “I followed your time as band pretty steadily. When the band went on break, I kind of lost touch, but only because of school, work, and family.”

            “That’s alright, love,” Louis said. “We all live busy lives, we can’t expect that everyone knows what we’ve been up to all this time.”

            “I’ve done my research though,” I replied with a wink. “For today, instead of this being a routine interview where I ask all the questions you know any interview is going to ask, I just want this to flow like a conversation,” I said, deciding on a whim that maybe the interview would flow nicely if the band members didn’t feel interrogated by me. “Like I said, I like to keep things as authentic as possible.”

            The boys looked at each other, sharing various forms of approval. It was then that Liam spoke up, and I suddenly remembered him being in control of the group’s interviews when they were younger. I wonder if he fell into that position naturally, even now after all of those years. “Where should we begin?” he asked, his accent catching the attention of Ryan once more. I knew it probably wouldn’t be too long before she interrupted out of pure curiosity.

            Before answering his question, I glanced over the boys who sat in front of me. They all appeared to be in pleasant moods, like they actually wanted to be back together. However, the “mysterious one” from all those years ago still lived true to his name. I decided to answer Liam’s question with some humor, to hopefully bring Zayn out of his quiet mode. “Just between us,” I said in a hushed tone, turning my attention from Liam to Zayn. “You were always my favorite.”

            Zayn flashed another one of those famous smiles. “But you look a little overwhelmed by being here, and quite frankly, that upsets me. I always thought the first time I met you, we’d fall madly in love,” I joked. Zayn let out a small laugh, followed by the laughter of the other boys. “I mean isn’t that how all of the fanfictions go? We meet, we fall in love, and we’re married by like chapter three.”

            “Unfortunately love isn’t that easy,” Harry spoke up, mid-laughter. I didn’t know whether or not he was joking or if was being sincere in a moment of lightheartedness.

            “I agree,” I told the boy, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. I looked directly into his eyes and could almost sympathize with him. It looked like there was more he needed to say, but I figured he would tell me later if he sought it necessary.

            Before I could get any further with the interview, I heard a small voice say, “Mommy! Can I color some more?” I went to respond, to tell her yes, of course you can color more, but instead, Ryan proceeded to run over to where I was sitting in at my desk. I had no other choice but to pick her up, spinning her around to sit facing the band.

            “I’m really sorry about the interruption, guys,” I said, feeling flustered. Ryan normally doesn’t interrupt like this, but with her chirpy personality, I felt I had no other choice but to introduce her. “This is my daughter, Ryan Monroe. She comes to work with me every day. Training her early on how to be a strong, working woman.” The boys smiled.

            “Sorry, Mommy,” she said, knowing that she interrupted something important.

            The boys who sat in front of us “awed” in unison. “Ryan, can you say hello to our guests?”

            “Hi,” she squealed, never being one to turn down a friendly introduction. She wiggled her way to her feet, walking around my desk to greet One Direction. “My Mommy calls me her Little Mermaid,” she told them, as if stating one’s nickname was part of a routine introduction.

            “I can see why she does so, darling. You’re a beautiful young lady,” Harry told her, placing his hand out for her to reach. Ryan turned her head to look at me, as if she were asking permission to go toward Harry. I nodded, and instead of going for the handshake Harry was offering her, she opted for a hug, and I could almost physically see Harry melt.

            When Ryan was back on her feet, she wore a grin of delight, enjoying every bit of this hijacking of my interview. It was Liam who spoke up next saying, “You look just like your Mom, did you know that?”

            Ryan nodded her head yes. “We have the same color hair,” she stated with a laugh.

            “Yes, you do. That color isn’t common—it’s beautiful,” Zayn said, surprising us all.

            “But those eyes didn’t come from your mother,” Niall began to say.

            Although Ryan shared the color of her eyes with Sawyer, they were one of my favorite features. “Those come from her father,” I said, some bitterness evident in my voice, although I truly did try to mask it. Victoria, who was still sitting at her desk, cleared her throat, and I looked up to see her giving me a sad smile. “Sorry,” I apologized to the boys, although I wasn’t sure for what exactly. “Anyway, we should get back to work. Ryan, I’m going to need you to go back to playing or coloring. You were being so good,” I told my daughter.

            “How come Daddy is never good to you?” she asked out of the blue, shocking everyone in the room into a state of silence. “He hurts you.”

            “Oh, Ryan Monroe. Can you just go play now?” I asked my daughter, my cheeks flushing red. It was suddenly really warm in the office as six adults stared at me, wondering what my next move was going to be. Ryan seemed oblivious to the fact that she had said anything wrong at all, as she looked at me for half a second more before running back to her corner of the room. “I—” was all that came out of my mouth. My heart was racing, and I knew if I didn’t get out of the confined space quickly, I would pass out. “I’ll be right back,” I told the band members and stood quickly from my desk chair, walking as fast as I could without stumbling, to the door.

            I could feel water pooling in the corner of my eyes. I couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing than walking out on an interview. Today of all days for my emotions to get the best of me—I normally hide my feelings very well. But after the incident with Sawyer this morning and the conversation with Victoria, everything I had spent years trying to hide, resurfaced. It wasn’t helping the situation any that Ryan chose today to be inquisitive. Once more I avoided the lingering stares of my coworkers and went to the only place I knew was likely empty—back to the breakroom. I closed the door behind me, holding it shut with my hand as if I had the strength to prevent anyone from walking in and knocking me down in the process.

            Turning around, I said a silent prayer that no one would walk in while I dealt with these pesky feelings of mine. My jacket came off and I tossed it across the back of the couch, before I myself collapsed onto the piece of furniture, my shoulder aching as I landed on my back. It was all I could do to keep my curses silent. My hands covered my face, shielding the light from my eyes. I wanted nothing more than to take a nap, wake up, and restart One Direction’s interview.

            My eyes stayed closed for no more than three minutes when my peace was interrupted by a faint tap on the door. If I hadn’t been shutting out every single sound in my mind, I might have not heard it. Just to be sure, I stayed still and waited until it happened again. With a groan, I stood and smoothed my shirt. With every step to the door, my head began to pound. Part of me didn’t even stop to realize that to enter the breakroom, one did not have to knock. Whoever stood behind this closed door had seen me come in and had respected my privacy. I took a deep breath and pulled the door open, surprised at who I saw.

            “Mr. Malik,” I whispered, my eyes immediately looking away from his. “I’m sorry for what you saw,” I added, feeling extremely terrible for ruining what was supposed to be their exciting comeback interview.

            “Mrs. Owens,” Zayn said, echoing my statement. I stayed still, my eyes still locked on the ground. “Am I allowed to come inside?”

            Without answering him directly, I moved to the side and opened the door all the way, allowing the band member into the room. I still wasn’t sure of his intentions, so I closed the door shut once more and went back to the couch. When I sat down, I tucked my legs underneath me and finally looked up at the man who was still standing by the door. His hair was as black as the dark ink that covered each of his arms in the form of lifelong, permanent memories. “I just needed a moment,” I admitted. “You should probably head back to my office, Zayn.”

            “I thought someone should check on you—I’ve never seen a look of pain wash over someone so quickly,” his thick accent spoke. When I didn’t say anything, Zayn continued talking. “Are you okay?” His eyebrows raised in confusion, and I wondered if he thought my reluctance to talk to him came off as disrespect.

            “Why would it matter to you, whether or not I was okay? This has to do with my personal life, not work. We should probably get going—”

            “Mrs. Owens,” Zayn interrupted me. “I’m allowed to be concerned, even if I just met you. After all, I’m your favorite. I thought if anyone checked on you, it should be me.” The boy finally walked closer to me, with a smirk on his face.

            I couldn’t stop the smiling forming upon my lips, despite the pain still throbbing in my head. “Thank you, Zayn. But really, let’s go back and finish the interview.”

            “But you haven’t answered my question yet.”

            “Which is?”

            Zayn sighed and finally sat down beside me. If he had been trying not to look at the bandages on my arm before, he definitely wasn’t hiding it now. I was suddenly overcome with a feeling of self-consciousness, so I reached for my jacket. Zayn beat me to it. “Too late,” he said. “Mrs. Owens—tell me what’s wrong.”

            “Nothing’s wrong,” I lied, an automatic response.

            Zayn moved slowly, cautious almost, and placed his hand on my leg. “Tell me what’s wrong, love,” he said softly. His demeanor, although would likely look romantic to some degree to an onlooker, didn’t feel that way to me. I felt like this near-complete stranger was someone I could completely trust. Just being in his presence created an aura of security. I sighed, tired of the conversations this day was bringing about. “What Ryan said, she’s never said before. I know what brought it about, but I’d rather not talk about it,” I told him.

            “I’m assuming it has to do with these bandages on your arm?” he pondered aloud. I nodded in response. “And your husband?”

            “Yes,” I whispered, defeated.

            “How often does this happen?” I heard the familiar question be asked, by yet another person who looked at me and felt pity.

            “Doesn’t matter, often enough.” There was no point in going into details. The point was, it happened. I had no idea why I took so long to admit this to myself. 

            Zayn’s golden eyes melted into a soft, sincere look, and locked onto mine. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Ow—”

            “Arielle,” I interrupted. “My name is Arielle. Or Ari, or Elle—I’ve heard them all before.” I hated that my last name was the same as Sawyer’s. It connected us in a way that I did not want to be. I did not want to be known as Sawyer Owens’ wife.

            “Ari,” Zayn said, as if he was testing out the name to see if it fit. “I like it,” he decided. “So Ari, in the chance of sounding rude, why haven’t you left him yet? You clearly have reason to. From what I’m assuming, you’re financially stable enough to take your daughter and leave. So, why stay?”

            “Isn’t that the golden question,” I snorted, as if the answer was obvious. “Zayn, don’t you know? My husband and I—we’re a tag team. Billboard’s journalistic duo. I do the writing and he does the photography. He’s doing the photoshoot with the band tomorrow. I can’t leave him,” I said, an overwhelming sense of panic flowing through my veins. I placed my hand atop Zayn’s, which was still resting on my leg.

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be. It’s my fault.”

            “Maybe I should have a talk with him. You’re too kind and far too beautiful to be treated like this. It’s not fucking right,” Zayn said angrily, sounding more so as if he were talking to himself. “Ari, what can I do to make this better?”

            “Start by not calling me Ari when he’s around tomorrow,” I told him, trying once more to lighten the current conversation with humor. “He won’t like it at all.”

            “I just want to make sure you and your daughter are safe.”

            “Sawyer would never touch Ryan. I know deep down, she’s one of the greatest things to have happened to him,” I assured Zayn.

            “But—”

            “But nothing, Zayn. This is my life. I chose this. I avoid provoking the wrath of the bear as much as possible, and when I mess up, I bandage the wounds and go on with my day.”

            Zayn looked me in the eyes once more, and I made a mental note to never try to hold eye contact with the mysterious one for too long. It was far too hard to maintain focus of the moment when I felt like every fear I had could vanish with just one long gaze. Zayn’s tattoo-covered hand moved from where it still rested on my leg, underneath mine, and he moved backward by an inch or two. “Can we go back to the interview now?” I asked, unsure of what else I could say to break the silence.

            “I need to talk to him, Ari,” was all Zayn could manage to say, and although our eyes remained fixated on each other, I could tell his thoughts were somewhere else.

            Shaking my head no, I told him, “If you value my safety, and my daughter’s, you won’t do anything but be your usual, quiet self tomorrow.”

            Pieces were still fitting into place in Zayn’s mind, but he eventually nodded. “After all,” he began to say. “It is too early in our story for me to be the knight in shining armor.”

            “Our story?” I pondered, with a laugh.

            “What’s funny?” he asked me.

            “I always dreamed of meeting you, you know. Yet, this is not how it was supposed to go.” I glanced to my hand that sat in my lap, feeling cold without Zayn’s underneath mine. I looked at my wedding ring, wondering what my life would be like if I wasn’t sworn to Sawyer with this piece of jewelry holding me still, to never progress any further in this life. Subconsciously, my eyes wandered to Zayn’s left hand, where a wedding ring sat.

            “How did you want it to go them, Ari?”

            “I didn’t want you to be married. I just wanted you to flirt like you are now and swoop me off of my feet.”

            “Flirt?” Zayn questioned, and if it weren’t for the small smile on his face, I would’ve thought I misread the signals. “No, that hasn’t started yet. Give it time, darling.” Zayn then stood up and reached for my hand. He helped me into my jacket, to avoid any more conversations about the topic today. “Let’s get you back to work. All good?”

            I smiled at the man who stood in front of me, wondering what I missed out on in life by settling with the first person to show me any attention. “All good,” I said with a nod. The two of us walked to the breakroom door, but Zayn paused.

            “You’re going to get through this. I’ll be right here when you do.” He leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on my cheek.


End file.
